


send me a dirty picture, babe. x

by liberateme



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Cocky Harry, Dirty Talk, Insecure Louis, M/M, Masturbation, Phone Sex, Sexting, Slash, Smut, Texting, age gap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 11:11:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liberateme/pseuds/liberateme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis knows exactly what he should do. Apologise politely to the stranger- so as not to provoke him- delete the text, and forget about the matter.<br/>So why does he find himself texting back, 'Nice dick.'?</p>
            </blockquote>





	send me a dirty picture, babe. x

**Author's Note:**

> so this is my first attempt at a larry fanfic. i'm not entirely sure if i ship them or not; i think it's just the concept of them being together that's too cute to resist.  
> which is kind of the opposite to what i've written. please don't hate me, this is what i do with my life.  
> (title changed slightly because i realised i'd stupidly created the fanfic cover with a different title. you may sarcastically applaud me.)

Well. Unexpected is a word Louis would certainly use in a situation like this.

He’s gawping down at his phone, held in his slippery grasp, at a more than graphic image of a man’s dick. He can see every detail- the etchings of black ink along the man’s arm, strained and taut as it’s wrapped firmly around the dick, pre-cum dribbling out of the tip. He can see the swell of muscles in the arm, the more-than-average sized dick, the promise of impressive muscles, lightly defined on the tanned torso.

He continues to stare, heart thudding at the sight. The thing was- _he wasn’t gay._ At least, he’d always thought so.

He’d been through a countless number of girls, with their slender frames, tousled hair and breathy gasps. He knows how to make one writhe underneath him, the effect his ‘talented mouth’ had. But his extensive knowledge of the female species seems worthless to him; he’s always craved something more, that a woman couldn’t give to him. He can’t explain it.

It’s the feeling of being treated roughly, tossed around like a ragdoll. He wants to be destroyed, _wrecked_ by someone, so he’s barely able to form coherent sentences, hobbling around the next morning.

Which is probably why he doesn't text back a; 'Sorry mate, wrong number.' and instead finds himself texting back, 'Nice dick.'

He's not sure what to expect, and certainly doesn't anticipate the stranger- who he's seen probably more than what you'd tend to see on a first date- replying with two sentences that have him picturing scenes that have him blushing furiously, and squirm in his seat: 'thanks. can only imagine what yours looks like. x'

The kiss at the end of the text has Louis pondering. Musing over what kind of person he's _really_ talking to. From what he's gathered, it's clearly a man. He really does hope. The stranger speaks to him as if they've met before; Louis' guessing it must have been a brief meeting at a club, little dialogue and fumbling hands, hot mouths connecting. It displays some sort of endearment towards him, so it could be he's meant to have met this stranger more than once. He's also guessing the poor man's been given the wrong number purposefully. Louis finds it odd he feels a scrap of sympathy for a man who appears to be sexting him, but what else is new? Welcome to his life.

Surprise, surprise, the wrong number turns out to be his. What a shitty turn of events.

His phone buzzes with a new text, and his eyes glance downwards, at the glowing screen. Another text from the stranger, who interprets Louis' silence as something that has the tips of Louis' ears a lovely shade of marroon, desperate for some sort of friction as he grinds filthily into his seat. 'i sent you mine, only fair you return the favour. ;) x'

A winky emoticon. It seems this conversation's taken on a whole new meaning. Louis doesn't find himself minding, as he can feel a light sheen of sweat plastering his forehead, quaking hands unzipping his unfairly-tight jeans. He slips them off with some difficulty, his cool hands hitting the burning skin there. It's _then_ he realises- with a little humilation- talking to this man and staring at a pixelated image of a dick for so long it's been engrained into his mind, is having an effect on him.

He's not sure whether to deny the feeling, or relax and admit a small part of him may have always wanted a man's dick inside of him.

But that's too extreme, isn't it? A step too far?

At this stage, Louis doesn't even _know-_ closing his eyes and inhaling shakily as he tugs off his CK boxers. Preparing himself to take a photo he's desperately hoping turns out well, and doesn't depict him as a sleazy porno-star.

Knowing the photographs he takes, it probably will. But he doesn't bother to look at it, aiming the phone at what he prays is a good angle- hand clasped around his slowly-hardening dick, flushed red with blood- and captures the shot with a click. Chewing on his lip nervously, he gives some time to debate whether this is a good idea, mulling it over. But he does anyway, going against every instinct, attaching the photo and taps out: 'How's this?'

Automatically, his phone vibrates with a text back: 'fuck. fuck, i'm hard. i always knew you had a great face, liam, but christ, your dick. it's better than i imagined. x'

Louis' teeth sink into his lip harder, giving his dick the slightest of squeezes. It perks up at the touch, like it's happy he's finally giving it attention. After all, it's been aching for ten minutes now, and his erection's becoming painful. He decides it's time to admit to to this stranger he's not 'Liam' or whoever this man spends his time chatting up at a bar. He assumes they've never been past third base, even. Poor guy.

If he were him, he'd have given up on Liam by now. But he must really be something, if this man he's talking to is willing to pursue him.

So on his ridiculously small keypad, he types out a confession. 'Listen mate, you're a great guy and all, but...'

'but? x' Harry prompts.

'...I'm not who you think I am. I'm not Liam.'

'shit.' The kisses stop, Louis notices. It's a bad sign.

'shit, shit, shit. you must think i'm a fucking idiot.' He rambles on, and Louis finds it kind of cute.

...Wait, what? Did he really just think that? Oh, fuck it. He's already in too deep, may as well accept it.

'i'm harry, if you wanted to know.'

There's a pause, and then; 'you probably didn't. god, i'm really sorry. i should shut up.'

Louis' smiling fondly at the phone in his hand, amused at Harry's constant texts, and how sheepish they are. It seems that this boy- yes, the one who boldly initiated sexting with him- has a softer side.

He reads Harry's next text, which says: 'if you don't want to talk to me, that's okay.' And sympathy melts the edges of his heart, giving him this warm, fuzzy feeling. It's definitely a contrast to the feeling of fire coursing through his veins he felt earlier.

So he answers the silent pleas behind Harry's texts, out of sympathy.

And yes, maybe the boy had a nice dick. He's only _human._  
  
'It's okay, honestly,' he taps out, before daring to add: 'I thought you had a nice dick.'

'hahaha, thanks mate. so what's your name? you already know i'm harry, the massive fucking idiot.'

'You're not an idiot. Liam's fault for giving you the wrong number. I'm Louis. :)' He finds it odd they're able to have a casual conversation, when minutes earlier, he was on the brink of wanking to a stranger's texts, something he's never done before in his life. He's not proud of it.

'good to know. how old are you?'

Louis settles back on his bed, back aching from the stiff, rigid position he'd been sitting in for almost an hour. Realising the vulnerable state he's in, he throws on a pair of jogging bottoms, leaving his chest bare in the cool night's air. His window's swung wide open, welcoming in the chilling breeze from outside- hitting his chest like frozen ice- but he can't find the motivation to get up from where he's so comfortably adjusted to, and shut it. So there he lies, shivering but too stubborn to put on anything else. He runs a hand absentmindedly up and down his chest, a habit of his he's so accustomed to, he almost forgets his hand is there.

'21. You?'

'wow, older than me then. ;) i'm 19. x'

Back come the kisses, and it only emphasises the fact he's been sexting a _youngster_ \- a minor- a boy two years younger than him, and he inwardly curses. This is bad, this is _very_ bad. A nineteen year old boy has seen his dick. He feels disgusted with himself, somehow forgetting at Harry's age, it's legal. Warning bells sound in his head as he keeps re-reading Harry's text, guilty thoughts running through his mind. _He's nineteen, for fuck's sakes. You should end this_ now _and stop texting him. Simple as that._ Do it, _Louis!_ A voice in his head demands, and he knows it's his common sense making itself apparent.

It's like an inward struggle; his mind against his body. His mind screams at him the consequences of what might happen, and it's no longer a 'two year gap'. It's more a 'you've got to be fucking me, two years? That's ridiculous' kind of gap. But his body's reminds him of how long it's...um, been since he's had a good lay. Nothing emotional about it, nothing intimate, just teeth and tongues, driven by the pure pleasure the two will reach. For the past few months, he's been getting by, mind occupied with work, a distraction from his animal instinct. But lying in bed at eleven at night, mind allowed to wander free, he _realises._ _  
_

How much he needs this. He's twenty one, for crying out loud! Not exactly like he's surpassed the stage where you can have sex.

In the end, his body wins, triumphantly, and he responds to Harry's text. 'Wow, I feel old.' He puts it as a joke, hoping Harry won't notice the concern hiding behind it.

'don't be. from what i've seen, you have a fantastic dick. top-notch. much better than liam's. x'

Louis remembers Harry- without meaning to- revealing he and Liam have never made it past third base. So he knows it's not truthful, just comfort offered, but he accepts it anyway. There's a small, nagging voice in the back of his head warning him there's something more behind that text, that Harry's hinting at something. He wants something more than a casual conversation, boys like him always do.

Sometimes, Louis wishes, his mind would _shut the fuck up_ and leave him be. After all, it could just be mindless flirting. Right? Harry's just amusing him, right?

Right. Louis' sure he'll get tired of him, leave soon. Then he can sleep in peace, knowing he didn't do anything wrong, free of guilt.

His phone buzzes again. What he reads makes him whimper, slightly. He can feel his dick stirring, waking up underneath his jogging bottoms. _No._  'in fact, when i saw it, i remember thinking all i wanted to do was lick a hot stripe along it.'

'you'd like that, wouldn't you, louis? your dick in my mouth? teasing you until you couldn't bear it.'

Fuck. Ah, he's fucked. Louis' hand has sneakily crept underneath his bottoms, brushing against his erection. Damn Harry. This boy will be the death of him. He curls a hand around it, starting off slowly, teasing himself. He imagines it's Harry, his large hand on his dick, whispering sweet nothings in his ear as he slowly brought him to what he was desperate for the most.

'you're hard too, aren't you? tell me you're hard, lou. x'

Lou. A nickname. How sweet, he'd think to himself, had he not been preoccupied with his thumb rubbing against his slit. He manages to use his left hand to type out a fumbling reply, struggling considering it's not his dominant hand. 'Shit. Yes, I'm hard, Harry. I'm fucking hard.'

'fantastic. now just picture it, all hard and flushed and fucking beautiful, spread out for me. all for me to do what i want to you. x'

'Stop, Harry.'

He gasps, loudly, Harry's words having a surprising impact on him. He can hear his heartbeat in his head, thudding loudly, feel the blood rushing through his body.

'you so sure you want me to stop? x'

Louis groans, because the obnoxious text is right. He _doesn't._ He really doesn't. In fact, he wants Harry to do anything _but._ The scene in his head's so beautifully explicit. Harry's mouth, enveloping his dick in a way he could never imagine. Humming, and bobbing, and oh, _god-_ deepthroating him to the point he wants to scream. He can imagine Harry's pink, pouty lips, stretched over him, eyes flicking up to meet his innocently. _Destroying him._

Like he's always discretely wanted.

'No. Shit, keep going. Please.'

'wait. let me call you. i want to hear your voice. x'

So Louis waits anxiously, figuratively twiddling his thumbs- when he's actually getting himself off to a nineteen year old boy he's never met- for a call. He's nervous, no denying that. He's never met this boy. He's never heard him speak, never seen his actual appearance. Endless possibilities of what Harry might _actually_ look like haunt him. He might not be nineteen. He might be a fifty year old truck driver, sprawled across his leather seat, breathing heavily as Louis texts him. The thought makes him wince. He really, _really_ hopes Harry's not a sex predator.

'Send me a picture first.'

To his surprise, Harry complies. In the dark, his eyes squint to see the pixelated image, small and framed on his phone. But he can make out distinguishing features; a chiselled jaw, well-cut cheekbones, a mess of curly hair, flashes of tattoos littered across his collarbone, and pouty lips. He drools at the sight. Harry's beyond average. He's ridiculously fit, and it makes Louis feel self-conscious. He'll never look as good as Harry does.

'send one back, then. x'

Dread and fear seep in, as he turns his phone to face him, aiming it at what he thinks will be a good angle- lighting and all that shit- and takes the photo, the 'click' informing him the photo's taken. With critical eyes, he scans over the photo, deeming it 'not a bad photo'. From the angle Louis' taken it at, you can see his whole face, neck, and a glimpse of his upper torso. He's got what he calls his 'sex hair'- where his normally feathered hair styled into a quiff, looks like it's been ruffled beyond repair, strands of hair sticking to his forehead from sweat. He's got a hint of a smile, more crooked than a friendly smile you'd direct at your aunt, or whatever. His eyes, however: he likes his eyes. They've always been a piercing-blue colour, and even surrounded by the darkness in his bedroom, you can see the ice-blue shade, staring at the camera. His shoulders are straightened, and broad, giving a flash of a few tattoos he has inked on his upper arms.

'Sorry it's not as good as yours,' he apologises before sending the shot.

Harry responds reasonably quickly. 'are you fucking serious? god, you're fucking fit. x'

'Says you. With your fucking muscles, and...'

'and what, lou? ;)'

'Shut up. Just call me already.'

When the phone rings loudly, a trill that gets Louis almost jumping out of his skin, he lets it ring a few times before he answers. Wouldn't want Harry to think he's _desperate,_ or anything. God, he sounds like a teenage girl. Might be one. For all he knows, he might be a twelve year old girl trapped inside a twenty one year old man's body.

"Hello?" He squeaks, hating how high-pitched his voice comes across as.

"Hi," comes a low rumble from the other side of the phone, and Louis can imagine the women of Britain's panties dropping at the sound of Harry's voice. It's like liquid sex.

"Is this better?" Harry chuckles, and _why_ did Louis have to be born with a girl voice.

It's not funny.

"I-I think so." He shifts a bit in bed, his hand springing to action again. Rubbing up and down his length. "Your voice is kind of like liquid sex, anyway."

Oh dear lord. Did he really say that aloud?

Harry's laugh confirms it, deep and fucking unfair. Louis wants to die. "Thanks. Yours isn't bad, either."

"Are you fucking with me? It's a girl's voice." He plays with himself, slowly and lazily in a way that has his body begging him to get a move on. But he wants to drag this out. Listen to Harry's voice.

"No it's not. And you're definitely not a girl. That dick, shit..." Harry trails off.

"Thinking about my dick, are we?" Louis teases. As everybody does. You know, everybody thinks about Louis Tomlinson's dick. Man or woman.

Okay, he's getting cocky now.

"Wouldn't it be hard not to?"

"Mmm, have to agree with you on that one," Louis says, astounded by how easily they fall into conversation, how any signs of awkwardness has diminished.

"So what are you doing?" Harry's husky voice asks him. He can hear the crinkle of bed sheets from the other end, and feels relief he's not the only one who does this. It loosens the hold guilt has on him.

"Nothing...in _particular._ " His voice rises on the last word, shallowly breathing as his fingers work on his length, to get him fully-hard again. It's working. He feels pleasure edge in, tingling from the area he's focused on, causing his head to spin. It's been so long.

"Are you- are you doing what I think you are?" Harry's voice floats into his ears, and Louis closes his eyes. It's not his hand touching him. It's Harry's. His body heats up at the contact, and suddenly he's painfully aware at how cold it is. But he can't get up. Not now.

"Don't know what you're- _talking about._ " He gasps, not disguising it any longer. He applies more pressure, loving every minute of it; the burning feeling that comes with it.

"You're touching yourself, aren't you?"

"Mmhm-maybe." His back arches, fondling his balls with one hand, the other pumping furiously now.

"Naughty boy," Harry sounds everything _but_ disapproving, and Louis loves it. Thrills giving him that edge, exactly what he needs.

Something which Louis does, a flick of his wrist, has his hips jerking up into his hand, moans escaping his mouth. No use trying to muffle them now Harry's heard him. "H-Harry..." He moans, eyes rolling back into his head.

"Fuck." There's a rustle, and then: "Fuck. Tell me what you're thinking, right now, Louis. Tell me," he breathes, and Louis might have been able to hear the desperation, had he not had his mind on something else.

"Just you, really..." Louis croaks out, "t-touching me." Another whimper, and unwittingly, he has Harry. Hook, line and sinker.

"I want you to do something for me, Louis." Harry croaks, sounding as wrecked as he feels right now. But he keeps going, _needing_ that release he know this will give to him. His hand is a blur, alarmingly. But then, he can't see very well. Pleasure blurring his vision, clouding his mind, all he can think is _HarryHarryHarry_ his voice, his body- _him._ _  
_

"Spread your legs, for me, okay love? Can you do that for me, Louis?" Harry's voice is oddly gentle, considering he can hear _everything_ Louis' doing.

Louis obeys, feeling the increasingly-intense pleasure buzz down his spine, mind fuzzy at the edges.

"Good boy," Harry coos. "Now I want you to imagine it's me who's touching you, and put two fingers in your arse."

It's very direct, and crude, but Louis complies, only focused on the pleasure of it and Harry's husky voice that would have his knees buckling, were he standing. Thank god he's not. It's a tight squeeze, a slight burn he's unused to, and he whines at the pain, disliking it immensly.

"It's okay. It'll be over soon, Lou."

Over the next few minutes, in Louis' groggy pleasure-induced state, Harry's voice soothes him, over the discomfort of his fingers in his arse. It's tightly uncomfortable, and the only thought in his mind is wishing for it to be over. It's only three minutes later, when the pain transforms into small tingles of pleasure, and Louis can't help greedily thinking he wants _moremoremore._

"H-Harry," he stutters, "w-what do I do now? 'm ready."

"Okay good," Louis can hear the smile in Harry's voice. "I want you to crook those two fingers, okay?"

He does, and feels a shock of pleasure through him, his body jolting. " _Fuck._ " His dick lies hard and heavy against his stomach, red and neglected. There's a dribble of pre-cum out of the tip, but Louis needs just that little push more to get him over the edge. He's been hanging on for some time now, and he knows soon it'll become unbearable.

"Fuck, Harry," he moans, now desperately moving his fingers inside of him, picturing Harry's long fingers. He brushes against something, a small bundle of nerves, and the feeling he gets is incredible. Almost spasming from the sheer euphoria of it all. He's panting now, knowing Harry can hear every sound. "H-Harry." He keeps repeating Harry's name, like a mantra pouring out of his mouth. Angling his fingers at where he found what appears to be his prostate, he continues to press against it, the pressure almost too much. _Almost._

"Shit, Lou. I can just imagine you, with your fingers in your pretty little hole, all puckered up and tight." Harry's got a filthy mouth, but Louis doesn't mind. The words are pushing him closer to his release, and he _needs this._

"Keep talking Harry," he pants. "Please." _  
_

"It wouldn't just be my fingers though," his low voice continues, with an edge to it, rough and raw. "I'd manage to fit my dick in there too, and it'd hurt like hell- but you'd take it, wouldn't you? Because you're just begging for it. I know you are. I'd pound into you, wouldn't stop until you've cummed more than once. Can you do that for me, Lou? _Cum_."

And he does. Toppling over the edge, white-hot pleasure blinding him temporarily, his dick streaks his stomach with white, as he cries out, " _Harry_!" His voice is hoarse, and broken, so it cracks slightly, so Harry can hear _really_ how spent Louis is.

Louis lies there, trying to regain his normal breathing, not having bothered to take his fingers out. He's sore, and sensitive, but it was so worth it. Every minute of it.

"That was..." Harry pauses. "Fucking amazing. You're fucking amazing, you know that right?"

"Really? I think I'm just average," Louis jokes, eyes closed, exhausted from the effort.

"We have to do that again some time."

"Definitely." He hears another rustle, and his brow furrows. Isn't Harry done yet? Then it clicks. _Oh._

Throughout this whole call, Harry's not touched himself or relieved any pressure he might have. Once. The focus has been on Louis, and he begins to feel a little like shit for not helping Harry in any way.

"Harry, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine." But he hears the strain in the treble voice, and knows Harry's got to do something first. "Just got to- sort out a problem, okay?"

"Sure. Call me back when you're done." He cuts the call. And out of impulse, he snaps Harry a picture of his lower stomach, decorated in his cum, along with a: 'Look what you did to me. Next time, I want you with me. ;)'

His phone slips from his hand, clattering onto the floor below. The screen's probably shattered now, but Louis couldn't really care less. It was a crap phone anyway. Next time, he thinks silently, he's buying an iPhone so he and Harry can facetime. Much more intimate. And better photo quality. Or- hopefully- they'll do it face to face. If Louis' feeling brave.

His eyes flutter shut, preparing for a long, _long_ sleep when he realises something and his eyes snap open. _Shit. I'm gay._

**Author's Note:**

> wow, so that fanfic took longer to write than expected. two days.  
> let me know what you think.


End file.
